


Pity Fuck

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Episode Tag, First Kiss, Gift Fic, M/M, POV Third Person Limited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 06:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2841329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Is this a pity-fuck, Ray?</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pity Fuck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dogsled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dogsled/gifts).



> Written for Dogsled's [fandom stocking](http://fandom-stocking.dreamwidth.org).

“Ray.”

Fraser’s voice was breathless as he sat up, pushing himself backwards until he had Ray at arms’ length, his palms hot against Ray’s chest. His face was flushed, and his hair was a mess, and his lips were shiny with all the kissing they’d just been doing, and Ray could have sworn Fraser had been having just as good a time as he was, here, but his eyes were way too serious as he sucked in a breath and went on:

“You feel sorry for me, don’t you?”

For a second, Ray just frowned at him, whiplashed by the sudden mood-change, not to mention the change from making out to. . .not. Then the look on Fraser’s face and his words clicked together in Ray’s brain, suddenly, sickeningly familiar, and shit, Ray knew exactly what Fraser was trying to say.

_Is this a pity-fuck, Ray?_

Ray had first-hand experience with pity-fucks, oh yeah. He’d been on the receiving end in his time, including a couple from his ex-wife and—even more pathetic—from his not-yet-ex-at-the-time wife. He’d never in his wildest dreams imagined that the day would come when _he’d_ be _giving_ someone a pity-fuck.

But the truth was, they were here in Ray’s apartment, making out on Ray’s couch, exactly because Ray _had_ felt sorry for Fraser.

Ray hadn’t liked Janet Morse much, but Fraser had lit up for her in a way Ray had come to figure the guy just wasn’t capable of. And it had sure seemed like the feeling was mutual. Only natural, honestly, because the two of them were like two peas out of the same nerdy-pioneers-of-the-great-wilderness pod. Fraser even liked the woman’s devil-spawn kids, which Ray figured made him a shoo-in for hooking up with her. Not much chance of a long-term thing between them, of course, since she’d presumably be heading back to Montana when her business was done. But hey, Fraser deserved a little fun if anyone did, and if what floated his boat was a couple-night stand with a nature-loving, gun-toting lady bounty hunter, who was Ray to stand in his way?

Except that all that happened in the end was she’d given Fraser one lousy goodbye kiss and skedaddled with her rugrats and her louse of a bail-jumping husband, leaving Fraser in the station hallway looking like he’d just had the guts ripped out of him.

So, yeah, of course Ray had felt sorry for the guy. He knew how much it sucked to get dumped, and Fraser was the last person on earth who deserved to feel that shitty.

So he'd figured he’d at least make sure Fraser didn’t have to spend the evening all by himself moping around in his office (because, for crying out loud, the guy didn’t even have a home to go home and mope in). He’d taken Fraser out to dinner—driven all the way over to Chinatown, because he’d figured out that Fraser liked the real thing when it came to Chinese food. Let Fraser order God-knows-what that wasn’t even on the menu, because apparently Fraser not only spoke Cantonese but knew the restaurant staff personally. After dinner (which had actually been pretty tasty, but Ray was glad he’d mostly managed to keep Fraser from explaining what it was made of), he'd dragged Fraser back to his place to catch the hockey game on TV.

And that all had seemed to cheer Fraser up some. But whenever Ray had glanced over his way during a red light or a commercial break, there’d be that sad, lost look in Fraser’s eyes. And every damn time, it had torn another shred out of Ray’s heart.

Until finally he couldn’t stand it any more. Something in him had just snapped. He’d reached over and put his hand on Fraser’s shoulder to give it a reassuring squeeze, just to let him know, _hey, pal, you’re not alone in the world, I’m here for you._ Fraser had turned to look at him, kind of startled, like he’d only just noticed he was sitting next to Ray on the couch and not off in the middle of some vast empty wasteland. Ray had suddenly found himself staring straight into Fraser’s eyes, and right at that moment, the only thing that had mattered to him was taking some of the loneliness out of them.

So without even thinking about what he was doing, he’d pulled Fraser into a tight hug. Fraser had made this surprised whuff; then, after a second, his arms had come up to hug Ray back, strong and warm and just so damned good.

And then Ray had backed off just enough to kiss Fraser, at which point, he had pretty much stopped thinking at all. Fraser’s kisses had been warm and strong and whole-hearted and he’d made these delicious little gasps and almost-moans whenever Ray’s fingers had found a new scrap of skin to touch. Fraser’s hands had explored the short hair at the back of Ray’s neck, and under his shirt, and it had been way too long since anyone had touched Ray like this (and the last time had been Stella, and they hadn’t quite even done anything) and it had all been going great, picking up steam—

And now Fraser was looking at him, and that hurt was back in his eyes, only this time it was Ray’s fault.

“Look,” Ray said, wishing he had the words to get them back to the happy place where they’d been just a few seconds ago. “You had a hell of a day, and I’m your friend, Frase. And friends don’t stand around with their hands in their pockets when their friends are hurting. They help out, try to make it better, that’s what friends do.”

Fraser nodded slowly. Ray could see him put together his game face. He stood up—Ray reached out a hand, but he didn’t quite dare to actually touch Fraser, who ignored the gesture.

“You’re a very good friend to me, Ray,” he said softly. “I know you were trying to help, and I appreciate the gesture. But you don’t need to.”

Ray wanted to argue, but he couldn’t come up with a damn thing to say. Fraser was right: pity-fucks never made you anything but more miserable the morning after. Fraser knew enough to save himself the pain, which just went to show that yes, he was smarter than Ray.

Except that that all sounded nice and logical, but it felt wrong, something was _wrong_ here, but hell if Ray could put his finger on the flaw, and Fraser was at the door.

“I just—” Ray said, and Fraser turned back to hear what he had to say, but that turned out to be nothing, and after waiting for what seemed like a really, really long time, Fraser flashed him a twisted little smile and let himself out.

"I'm sorry," Ray told the closed door, but that was wrong, too. Half-wrong, anyway, because yes, he was sorry for hurting Fraser, but mostly he was sorry they'd stopped.

  

                        *                                  *                                  *

 

At three o’clock in the morning, the street outside the Canadian Consulate was as dead as Chicago ever got. Ray figured the neighbors wouldn’t appreciate him banging on the Consulate door as loud as he’d need to do to rouse Fraser from all the way in the back of the building. He’d broken into the place in the middle of the night once before to see Fraser, and Fraser hadn’t seemed to mind then, but right now it’d probably seem stalkery. Hell, probably a normal person would think just showing up on his doorstep at three in the morning was kind of stalkery. Thank God Fraser wasn’t a normal person.

Ray pulled out his cell and dialed the Consulate’s number, hoping they were too old-fashioned over there to have figured out voice mail. 

“Canadian Consulate,” came Fraser’s voice after the third ring. He sounded tired. Well, duh, three in the morning. “Constable Benton Fraser—”

 “Fraser, let me in so I can tell you why you’re wrong.”

“I. . .all right.” _Click._

Fraser was still dressed, only missing his shoes. Either he’d pulled on his clothes lickety-split to answer the door, or he hadn’t been to bed yet.

“Listen,” said Ray as Fraser shut the front door behind him. Even though he knew there was no one else in the building, he felt compelled to whisper, like he might wake someone up if he talked too loud. “I _am_ your friend, and I _was_ trying to help. But you were wrong about that last part, Fraser. I do need to.”

A crease appeared between Fraser’s eyebrows, but he didn’t say anything. Which was a damn sight better than if he’d jumped right in with a counter-argument, so Ray plowed ahead.

“You remember, after the thing with Stella and the bomb? You were a pal, you wanted to help. You offered to take me to dinner, but I went home alone.”

Fraser nodded. “You said you needed—”

“Yeah. I said that. So I went home, and I got a little loaded, and I put one of her favorite songs on the stereo. Danced a little. By myself. Wishing to Hell someone’d touch me. Not even love me, just, you know.” He pressed his palm over his own heart, then Fraser’s.

Fraser twitched but held his ground.

“You understand,” he said. The frown was turning bewildered.

“Yes,” said Ray.

“But. . .but you said. . .”

“What?”

“That I was wrong.” Fraser shook his head. “But you _know_ how it feels—”

“Exactly. It ain’t a pity fuck if we both feel the same. Even playing field.”

But Fraser just kept shaking his head.

“Come on, Frase. What’s so wrong with that? You need something, I need the same. And it’s not like anyone else is lining up to give it to either of us.”

“I’m sorry,” Fraser said, and he really did look sorry, but also unshakable. “You’re very generous, but I can’t. . .I can’t settle for what you’re offering. And I don’t want to see _you_ settle for that, either. You deserve better.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

Fraser sucked in a long breath through his nose and let it out through his mouth, and Ray could see the moment where he said to himself, _Oh, the Hell with it._

“You deserve to be cherished. Respected. Admired. Delighted. Challenged. Supported. Teased. Danced with and made love with and held. By—by someone who you—”

“Okay,” Ray blurted. He felt like his chest was being squeezed in a vise; couldn’t barely breathe.

“I’m sorry? What—?”

“I said okay. I’m sold. If, uh, if you’re offering.”

The crease was back between Fraser’s eyebrows, but this time the look on his face clearly said, _One of us is unhinged, here._

Which, maybe he had a point, but Hell, that was really only a problem if just _one_ of them was unhinged.

“Ray.”

“What? You don’t think I deserve _you_?”

But Fraser was too smart to answer that kind of trick question.

“You think I can’t give you all those things you said?” Ray pressed.

Fraser closed his eyes.

“On the contrary. I’ve seen how natural it is for you to give them, where you’ve given your heart.”

Fraser was thinking of Stella. Well, of course he would, especially since Ray had brought her up. Funny thing, though: _Ray_ hadn’t been thinking about her, not like that. He hadn’t been mourning everything they’d had together; everything he’d lost when he lost her. He’d been thinking, for the first time, that maybe he could have it again. With someone else.

“Okay, you’re right,” he said. “But the thing is, you know that thing I said to that stalker-bomber-dude in Stella’s apartment?”

“When it’s over it’s over,” Fraser quoted. “You told me afterwards that you didn’t really mean it.”

“Yeah, I say a lot of stuff, Frase, you ever notice that?”

“Yes,” said Fraser. “I’ve noticed.”

“Well, so, you maybe don’t want to take it all literally.”

“I assure you, I don’t.”

“You don’t?” Ray stammered, startled. “Well, uh, good. Then what do you—?”

“Your body language can be very eloquent.” Fraser sounded almost apologetic, like it was some kind of slightly embarrassing secret. “Also your tone of voice.”

“Right. Right, that’s my point.” Ray’s palm was still splayed against Fraser’s chest; he moved it just a little, rubbing circles over the soft flannel, feeling the solid warmth under there. “Seems like we had some good nonverbal communication going on earlier.” With his free hand, Ray reached down, took hold of Fraser’s, and brought it up to rest on Ray’s waist. It felt good there; felt right. “What’s my body telling you now?”

“Ray.” Fraser stood there with his hand on Ray, not moving a muscle, like a poseable plastic doll. Except for his face, which looked not much different than when Janet Morse had walked away. “I know you’re lonely, that doesn’t mean—”

“Frase, six hours ago you were smooching a bounty hunter. Now you’re singing a different tune. You see me trying to tell you how you feel?”

Ray had his own hand on Fraser’s hip, now, and he slid the other up from Fraser’s chest to lightly cup the back of his neck. Fraser was still stiff as a board, but when Ray swayed a little, slow-dance-style, Fraser rocked with him.

“I’m sorry,” murmured Fraser, dropping his eyes.

“I’m not.” Ray leaned in to kiss him—felt the breath escape from Fraser’s parted lips—but at the last second, Fraser turned his face aside.

“Ray, don’t. You don’t know—you can’t know—”

All Ray’s life, people had told him that: _You can’t know that, how can you possibly know that?_ And mostly they didn’t take _I just know, okay?_ for an answer. Stella had trusted his hunches, but Stella had known Ray down to his bones, better than he had known himself sometimes.

Fraser didn’t know Ray like that. Not yet. But he was going to. That was another thing Ray knew.

For now, Ray was just going to have to prove it to him, the slow way.

“All right, fine.” Ray took a couple of steps back to give Fraser breathing room. “You want to test drive before you buy? That’s fair. So, fine. Step one, you’re coming home with me now and you’re sleeping in a real bed tonight.”

“I don’t think that’s a good—”

“I said sleep. I’ll crash on the damned couch if it makes you feel better, but you said cherish, and it is the opposite of cherishing to let you keep sleeping in your office, so wake up the wolf, get your boots on, and let’s make tracks.”

Fraser opened his mouth, and then for the second time in ten minutes, Ray saw him decide to give in. Except this time, his body language wasn’t, _The Hell with it,_ it was, _Please._

Excitement fizzed all through Ray’s body until he had to let it burst out in a grin. Slowly, like a Polaroid picture fading into sharp-edged color, Fraser smiled back.


End file.
